


Assignation

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 16:25:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>little sticky something Megatron/Deadlock for tf-rare-pairing 'nothing to fear'.  The prompt is a little, uh, slantwise</p>
            </blockquote>





	Assignation

“Deadlock.” Megatron’s face stayed steady, but there was that certain warmth that slipped into his voice, that familiarity and approval.

Deadlock gave a sharp nod, his own optics lingering just a klik longer than mere military courtesy demanded, on Megatron’s face, seeking something he seemed to find. “Wanted to see me.”

Always, Megatron thought, amused.  If he ever doubted himself, or his cause, or the path they were on, he would find faith buttressed in Deadlock’s face.  But he never doubted.  He’d seen too much, suffered too much, to waver.  The system that had created this world, the injustices that had humiliated him, made mechs like Deadlock nearly starve, would be strangled by their own creation. It bound them both.

“I have a mission for you.”

Deadlock reached out a hand, for a datafile, with another nod. No questions, no hesitation.

Megatron tilted his head. “It’s in, perhaps, your old line of work.”

Deadlock stiffened, mouth crushing into a flat line. “‘Perhaps’.”  The secret Deadlock had told no one but him, how he’d earned his living before the war, in the gutters.  

“It may be required.”

He saw the struggle in the orange optics, hatred and humiliation and disgrace...and the desire to serve the cause.  It was no doubt to Megatron which would win: just like the Arena, really. The end was never in doubt, but the journey was worth the watch.

“I wouldn’t ask this much of you, Deadlock, for nothing.” A consolation, and a truth. And he watched Deadlock’s mobile mouth, suffering, conceding.

“All right,” Deadlock said, his voice so soft it barely carried. He reached his hand out again, forcing it still, palm open.

Megatron shook his head. “No data. No record of this.”  He waved Deadlock around to the console, pulling up an image on the screen.  Soundwave’s intel, rock solid, and the fewer copies the better. “Senator Shockwave,” he said. That wasn’t the name on the screen, but, well, that didn’t mean anything. He called up the trace, and then the main account.

“A Senator.” Deadlock studied the image: Shockwave’s official Grand Imperium identification picture: a large mech with a broad, easy, confident smile.

“And he’s looking for a bodyguard,” Megatron pulled up the Lightwave record again.

“Thought the Senate did their own security.”

“Which means what he’s needing protection for he wants off their radar.”

Deadlock gave a noncommittal grunt, stepping closer, reaching over to pull up Shockwave’s record again, optics bright and intense. His hip was a handspan from Megatron’s, frame leaning in, straining to not miss anything. Megatron had to resist the urge to rest a hand on the spaulder, a touch he knew wouldn’t be unwelcome.  But now wasn’t the time.

Whatever Deadlock was looking for, he found, apparently, reaching for the keypad.  His hands flew over the larger keypad, calling up an old account. “No one else has answered.”

“Soundwave,” Megatron said, simply.  Soundwave had made it the work of microkliks to shunt any responses to the advertisement to a null route. Except, of course, one sent from here.

“Going to look suspicious if no one else replies,” Deadlock murmured, one side of his mouth pulling as he tweaked the stats on his reply.  

“Not your concern,” Megatron answered. He had that well in hand.  But he didn’t mind Deadlock’s observation: sharp and clever and not afraid to challenge. Exactly what he’d look for in a Decepticon, in the future of their kind.  

And obedient: Deadlock nodded, finishing up his response, skimming it quickly before sending it.  He stood for a long moment, staring at the screen. Megatron wondered what he thought, watching the letters, the tracking codes: did he see his old life, when he’d relied on such networks to bring him jobs, unsavory and filthy?  Or did he see some redemption here, his own power, the way he controlled and manipulated, now?

Deadlock turned, hip scraping along the console’s edge, to face Megatron. “Bodyguard job.”  A host of questions in those two words.

“The Senator has a history,” Megatron smirked, “of seducing his underlings.” Trust Soundwave to find out the salient details, reporting them in that neutral tone of his, even though he knew each word was handing Megatron a weapon.  He grinned at the irony, as he closed the distance between them, one thigh pressing into Deadlock’s.  “If he does, let him.”  

Deadlock’s helm tilted up to his, one hand coming between them, resting on Megatron’s blocky chestplate, fingertips covering the old scrollwork from his arena days. It was assent, agreement, and more. It was almost no effort at all for Megatron to scoop Deadlock’s hips up, resting the smaller mech’s aft on the console’s edge, spreading the dark metal of Deadlock’s thighs. Deadlock’s hand slid between them, palm for Megatron’s interface hatch.  
It complicated things between them, seduction and power, mingled motives.  But it was a complication that drew them both. There was enough simple in the world: life and death, power and weakness. They both needed this, as complicated and undefinable it was, something right and selfish and yet neither.

His spike released, surging into the hand that was far better suited to hold a gun, and Deadlock lay back on one elbow, releasing his own interface equipment, inviting as much as assenting.  

Megatron moved forward, bracing one palm on the console beside Deadlock’s shoulder, optics blazing down upon him as he sank his spike into Deadlock’s narrow, desire-slick valve. It was as much a claim of power as need and want and desire: owning Deadlock, controlling him, and yet giving pleasure and desire, admitting to mutual need.  

Deadlock sucked in a hissing vent of air, wrapping one ankle around the larger mech’s hip, pulling him closer, valve calipers dancing over the spike, optics lidding, though his face lost none of its earnest intensity.  Megatron smirked down at him, owning, wanting, claiming and needing, covering the smaller mech with his shadow.   

And even as he knew that right now, Soundwave was likely watching, his spy programs everywhere throughout the base, adding to his own dossier on Megatron’s character, his strengths and weaknesses, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Let him watch, let him think he knew and understood. Let him think he had a clue to unravel Megatron. That was a challenge that would blossom in another moment. Let him realize something he could never understand.  

Right now, all Megatron wanted was the fierce pleasure of taking and surrender, of willing submission and power. There was nothing to fear from Soundwave, nothing to fear from this brief moment of indulgence, of tasting what he was sending Deadlock to do. And Deadlock needed it too, a hard reassurance that he was valued and valuable, as though this redeemed him and what Megatron was asking him to do.


End file.
